Unconventional
by am0rtentia93
Summary: "What's the point of being with wizards? We're related to, like, all of them." Being helplessly in lust with a Muggle is how Victoire prefers her drama. [Teddy/Victoire] Maybe.
1. Un

Rays of light spilled into my bedroom the same moment I regretted misplacing my trust in that fourth tequila shot last night.

"Just let me die," I declared to no one in particular.

"Could you _be_ any more overdramatic?" a voice I had hoped to Merlin wasn't still there replied.

Cold air brushed over my bare legs as the covers were ungraciously yanked off the bed – _my_ bed. I would have felt the goose bumps if I could feel anything at all. Besides shame, obviously. How could I let this happen again?

"It's unethical to let me live like this." I decided that ignoring the elephant in the room, albeit in the form of an incredibly attractive man, was not going to help. I lay there, struggling with how I was going to entertain my unexpected morning guest. He never exactly stayed for breakfast, and I had no clue how to not burn the place down without a wand.

"It's unethical how long you went without shaving your legs."

I shot up, ignoring the pounding in my head that had kept me horizontal in the first place. "How was I supposed to know you were going to have another breakdown? So sorry I didn't prepare for the pity sex."

"You're hot when you're bitchy."

"If only I thought so about you," I murmured so only I could hear.

Disregarding any sense of modesty, he stepped over the pile of last night's clothes – which, unfortunately for my self-esteem, included skinny jeans that wouldn't fit over my big toe – and walked over to the window to draw the curtains. This was the first time I saw him naked while sober, noting the scorpion tattoo on his right shoulder blade that I failed to spot the last three times we "rendezvoused" this past year.

Okay, four. I'm so pathetic.

Hoping to provoke a reaction, I asked, "Why did Emma break up with you this time?"

"Same reason we broke up the other five times." Merlin, I slept with him _six_ times? "She doesn't think I'm marriage material." He used air quotes for emphasis before he pulled a shirt over his head. Maybe I wouldn't have to ask him the pancakes or waffles question after all.

"And clearly you running into my bed every time you two have a falling out is proving her wrong," I responded, amused at the sight of him struggling with those stupid pants.

"Hey," he started before pausing to search for his other sock, "we aren't together." He peeled the aforementioned sock off the lampshade on my nightstand. "Technically. It's not cheating."

"Then why doesn't she know we've slept together? Normally a few hours after you two practically announce divorce," I added.

"I'm protecting you."

"She's eight stone."

"Of pure evil."

I ignored his remark, as it would not be wise to badmouth his on-again, off-again girlfriend. This time tomorrow he'll be waking up in her bed again, so keeping mum on anything Emma related was my way of staying neutral. You know, as neutral as you can be for consistently sleeping with the same man who only remains single for 24 hours.

"I have to, uh, shower."

Mirroring my awkward tone, he suggested, "So I have to, uh, go?"

In the same second I thought that maybe, just maybe, he _wanted_ to stay, that this was going to turn into something more than ten hours of drunken mistakes… his cellphone rang.

Suddenly realizing that he was very much clothed while I was very much not, I wrapped a sheet around myself and scrambled out of bed. "You better get that." I tried to hide the hurt in my voice as I made my way to the bathroom. As I opened the door, I turned to face him. "And see yourself out before you answer. I don't want to be in the same vicinity as you when you lie to her about where you were last night."

Without a word, I slammed the door so I wouldn't have to hear him say, "Em. Hi. I'm so glad you called."

"Vic, this is why you don't tap Muggles." Dominique was, judging by her tone, exasperated over my life choices. The younger sister with a much more structured life, Dom knew how to subtly imply that she had her shit together. For example, she planned this brunch. Considering I was on my third mimosa (hair of the dog, right?) while she opted for coffee because _Merlin, Vic, tomorrow's a Monday,_ I left all scheduling up to her. "I mean, when they piss you off, you can't even hex them. What's the point?"

"What's the point of being with wizards?" I asked slyly, smiling into the brim of my glass. "We're related to, like, all of them."

Dom, ever the logical one, considered this with a shrug. "Good point. I'll be sure to use that the next time Nana Weasley pesters me about being single."

"It's better to be single than to be your coworker's friend with benefits."

"You realize you can end that any time, yeah?" Dom asked sarcastically. "And I reckon you could even do that before he gets back with Emily."

"Emma," I corrected. "And it's too late. They're probably having missionary sex as we speak."

"Then quit," she joked, knowing my only response would be indignation.

"I worked way too bloody hard to let Logan drive me away. I'm getting that Managing Editor position if it kills me."

Ever since I could remember, I had hopes of becoming a writer for the _Prophet_ 's Muggle Liaison section. Getting that job required an expansive knowledge of Muggle politics and pop culture – topics in which my Muggle Studies courses only scratched the surface. As soon as I finished Hogwarts, I delved right into the world of Muggle journalism. Due to my inexperience – I certainly could not put a Hogwarts professor as a reference – I settled for unpaid internships at various news rags and a glamorous life of living at home with my parents. While all my friends were selling their souls to the Ministry or getting paid to play Quidditch, I was forced to leave my wand at home and take the Tube to get to work. Like _Maman_ always said, I never liked taking the easy route – a sensibility that unfortunately seeped into my love life. Those internships eventually paid off. Having adequately padded my non-magical resume by the time I was 20, I got a job at a local newspaper and traipsed off to live in Muggle London, finally free from the shackles of Shell Cottage and the confused looks from my parents.

As a Copy Editor, I had to fight off the stares I received when coworkers learned my age. Rumors invaded the office; one day I was a prodigy that graduated from Oxford a year early with three degrees, the next I slept my way in (which was all the more amusing to me when I learned that my boss, Rory Sayer, was gay). Guess which rumor stuck? The gossip, however, was not totally false; Rory _was_ the reason I snagged the job, just not for the reason some jealous employees assumed. A Squib whom I met for career advice as a sixth year after I told the Headmistress my plans of working the Muggle beat, Rory sympathized with the obstacles I had to go through to acclimate to a world that was not mine. While other bosses would never hire someone with no proof of education (unless it was for free, of course) and laughably basic computer skills, Rory felt like he owed me a shot. I was forever indebted and thankful. So thankful, in fact, that I stayed on after he promoted me to Chief Copy Editor after two years.

And cue my replacement. Logan Bleeding Bell. Fresh out of Cambridge – and so much more mature looking than the 22 years he was claiming, according to all the salacious cougars I worked with – he got the Copy Editor position scandal free, a point he always liked to make any chance I was in earshot. _Oh, Vicky, I'm so lazy. I only had to blow two blokes to land this gig._ Three years later, and a promotion so close I could almost see the new line on my CV, the only thing that changed between us were our job titles (he became Chief Copy Editor when I took on the position of City Editor) and the amount of times we slept together.

Logan had 25 years to grow up, and he chose to ignore every single birthday. His perfectly maintained six pack, perfectly coifed jet black hair, and perfectly sparkling blue eyes allowed him to be a perfect arse. He reveled in his lothario status because women allowed it – after all, he was the definition of tall, dark, and handsome. It made for better snogging, better fights, and better sex. He loved Emma, until she got too serious and he had to break her heart just to remind her how easy he was to lose. Then it was snogging, fights, and sex (not always in that order) with me. Until, inevitably, it wasn't anymore.

Nervously playing with the hem on her skirt, Dom pressed, "But… you can give that application to the _Prophet_ a go. You have more than enough ex–"

"It's just not in the cards right now," I cut in, more sternly than I intended. I was comfortable at _West End Report_. I was comfortable with the steady stream of promotions Rory was offering. I was comfortable with the rivalry I had with Logan that made me a better writer; with having to hide my identity from coworkers and lovers (even if it was just the one); with having my own life that I built without the help of any of my famous relatives.

I was proud. But I was also scared. Because I certainly couldn't go back home and face _him_.

"How about you let me get this one, yeah?" Dom said after the bill mercifully came, cutting through the tense moment of silence between us. Remembering that I bought Logan shots last night (" _Oh Emma is just the wooooorst, boo."_ ) and thankful that Grandpa Arthur taught all of us how to use Muggle money, I allowed it with a gracious smile.

"You know I'll be visiting Hogsmeade soon, anyway. I'll catch up with everyone before Christmas for once!" I did my best to sound bright and cheery, ignoring the dread I felt when I remembered that Louis would almost definitely want to invite a less than desirable guest. "There's no way we're celebrating your 22nd _here_."

"We better not be. I'm tired of having to find intricate places to Apparate. I almost landed in a rubbish bin this morning."

"You could always take the Tube."

The expression I received must have been akin to how people looked when our parents were younger and it was announced that Voldemort was back in power.

"Point taken," I responded with a laugh.

Dom wrapped a scarf around her neck while complaining about how chilly it was becoming. I took a look around the quaint al fresco café Dom chose for our monthly meet-ups. Crisp autumn leaves littered the floor so purposefully that I would not have been surprised if the staff had bought them for decoration. Just like Dom, it was a little pompous with just enough charm to make up for it. Her change was delivered on a wooden slab with _Gigi's Trattoria_ engraved on it. How unnecessary.

"How cute," she proclaimed, grabbing her notes and putting them in her wallet – not before taking a painstaking amount of time removing the crinkles and putting them in monetary order.

It was no wonder she was the only one who genuinely seemed to enjoy Uncle Percy's company.

"Well, until November, _mon amour_ ," I said, hugging my sister as tightly as I could. The worst part about living in West End was how little I got to see her, Louis, and my parents. With Louis finishing up his last year at Hogwarts and Dom working for the Department of Magical Transportation, we had birthdays and holidays – and not always all of them. All three of our lives became very hard to mesh the older we became. I had become so immersed in the Muggle world that I sometimes forgot to bring my wand with me when I visited home. Whereas one was an energetic 18 year old obsessed with Quidditch and the other was a by the books practitioner of magical law enforcement.

Dom studied the somber look on my face. "I know you won't admit it because you're more stubborn than _Maman_ and Uncle Ron put together, but I can tell you're lonely. November 3rd. The Hogs Head. We'll get you so drunk you won't even realize that Teddy is there."


	2. Deux

The morning after The Morning After is never pleasant, particularly when you're still recovering from an emotional hangover.

As my alarm blared at the ungodly hour of six in the morning, I jolted up and was immediately consumed with dread. Why did I display my vulnerability to Logan like that? How could I have possibly thought that that night was going to be any different from our other desperate trysts?

And why in bloody hell did I let him see how jealous of Emma I was?

We _work_ together. Sleeping with him was already blurring some ethical line, so obviously I had to go the extra mile and develop feelings for the twit. Classic.

Already fulfilling my martyr quota for the day, I rolled out of bed quite literally and grabbed a pair of black jeans and an oversized sweater from a pile that was most definitely meant for laundry.

Accio dignity?

I flicked on the news and went about brushing my teeth when the anchor that always wore a comical amount of makeup said something that made me choke on spearmint foam.

"In an unusual turn of events, a fight broke out in West End last night in front of Gigi's Trattoria, resulting in the murder of 35-year-old Jonathan Crawford."

Toothbrush hanging limply out of my mouth, I rushed to turn up the volume. "Police ask that privacy be given to the matter until the investigation is over, as a stunning lack of eyewitnesses produced little evidence found worth noting." I waited for the inevitable "but" when she allowed a smug, dramatic pause. The network would not have the words "Breaking News" in the ticker if that was all the information they had to share.

"But one of our reporters spoke to local businessman Ollie Dunn, who called 999, and his account suggests that the police are trying to keep hush of some… mysterious circumstances."

I frowned. Never once had I seen her lose her diplomatic composure on air, but she could not hide the amused tone in her voice. Clearly she believed Mr. Dunn was batshit crazy.

Not daring to keep my eyes off the telly after I quickly spat in the sink, the footage of the interview began as I put my hair in a messy plait, using the screen as a makeshift mirror.

"I dunno how else ter explain it other 'n voodoo." His voice bore an uncanny resemblance to Hagrid's, but the similarities stopped there. Lanky and platinum blond, his average appearance belied the wild look in his steely grey eyes. "A group o' men in hooded cloaks yelled at the fella an' he dropped dead."

My eyes mimicked his. Murder was something that came with living in a city – I would never tell _Maman_ that, but working in a news room taught me right from the get go that terrible things happened all the time. "You can't do emotions," Rory warned me on my first day on the job. And, with the exception of my personal life, I listened to him.

Hell, the only reason this story intrigued me at all was that it happened right in front of the offensively quaint brunch spot where Dom and I ate expensive omelets. It wasn't the murder that surprised me, it was the location.

But when Muggles start talking about voodoo, I pay more attention. The only people that can cause others to drop dead don't usually choose to live in this world. My eyes shifted to the nightstand that held my wand.

"I realize that everything happened so fast, but did you hear any gunshots? Get a glimpse at the murder weapon?"

"There was no murder weapon," he said matter-of-factly. Noting the reporter's confused expression and glancing directly at the camera, Mr. Dunn quickly explained himself to ensure the rest of England that he was, in fact, not crazy. "I saw the body meself when I ran over ter the poor bloke after I called the police. No cuts. No gunshot wounds. No blood!I'm tellin' yeh. I saw what I saw _._ " He paused, wiping his brow. "Why do yeh think the police won't let anyone look at the body? They got that poor bastard outta here so fast the police didn't get the chance ter put up tape."

"A most mysterious incident," the reporter deadpanned. What a condescending douche canoe. "Do you have any reason to believe that this was a hate crime?" The picture displayed when the anchor first broke the story was of a Black man. Mr. Dunn spoke of hooded figures, and I remembered learning about the KKK in Muggle Studies. A racist hate crime was something that everyone could wrap their head around. Terrible? Yes. Explainable? Sadly, also yes.

"Not unless the word Mudblood is a slur I dunno about."

I blinked. I blinked and then opened and closed my mouth like a goldfish. Palms wet, I turned off the telly and dropped the remote like it was scorching hot. My eyes stung, my head hurt, and it wasn't because of Logan or alcohol or the usual catastrophic mix of both. It was because I was scared. It was because yesterday my biggest concern was that I was only getting laid once every few months, and today a Muggle that had no concern about the last two Wizarding Wars just said Mudblood on my local news channel.

And for the first time, I brought my wand to work.

"This story will make or break your career."

I could not help but roll my eyes. Rory always said that after he explained assignments. He told me that very thing when I got handed my first solo piece. The headline eventually read, "Inflated Pest Control Prices are Becoming the Real Pests."

Needless to say, I never took his caveat seriously. I was pretty assured that whether or not people read about termites had little effect on my subsequent success.

I glanced at Logan, the only other person in the cramped conference room. He winked. I scoffed.

"With all due respect, isn't us sensationalizing the death of a local man a little…"

"Beneath us?" Logan offered. I was admittedly taken aback. Logan loved scandal. Our best headline writer, he could have turned my pest control piece into a daytime soap opera.

"Well, erm. Yes. I think giving any attention about an interview of a man that is clearly delusional is just mean. Voodoo, I mean _really_." I was praying that Rory could hear the desperation in my voice and not Logan. The less this murder was spoken of, the better. And I thought Rory of all people would understand. "We don't need to make him more of a laughing stock than he already is. The piece on Jonathan Crawford's murder won't make sense until we get the real facts from the police."

"I completely agree with Victoire," Logan declared confidently, more to Rory than to me. I didn't think he knew my full name, let alone how to pronounce it.

"Mr. Bell." When Rory addresses you by your last name, you know you're in for an epic tongue lashing. "Considering you have the moral backbone of after-dinner pudding, I am a bit surprised by your sudden sympathy. And Miss Weasley…"

Shit.

"We report the news. Not yellow journalism gossip. And for you to suggest that the _West End Report_ would do otherwise, especially concerning a murder, is disgraceful. The point of the assignment, which is something I did not think I would have to explain to someone as bright as you, is to report what Mr. Dunn, the _only_ witness, saw in a non-biased way." Thinking he was done making me feel like absolute rubbish, I opened my mouth to apologize. "So _surely_ you would make it up to me by working with Mr. Bell on the piece. Contact Ollie Dunn, drain all of the information you can out of him, and if I don't see 100% cooperation, I will fire both of you faster than you two can get into bed with each other."

Logan and I balked.

"Oh like the entire office doesn't know," he replied at our weird gasping noises, waving his hand dismissively. "Now go."

Heads down, we exited, not daring to utter so much as a goodbye until we were completely out of Rory's earshot and safely in the breakroom.

"You know, I thought science convinced me that men couldn't get periods, but I'm starting to wonder." Logan poured coffee into the Cambridge mug he once told me Emma threatened to break during one of their arguments. I smirked in spite of myself.

"We _did_ piss him off," I countered.

"I think his rationalization is bullshit." Logan stole a sip. "He acts so benevolent, up his own arse about how he wants to give Ollie a podium to stand on, a fair shake, but I wasn't born yesterday. He wants a piece of the action just like everyone else. The _Report_ is sinking. We aren't playing dirty enough. If you can't beat 'em…"

Join 'em.

"Rory would never do that," I replied, not as confidently as I had hoped.

Logic kept getting in the way. Rory knows about the Wars. He knows about the Statute of Secrecy. He knows that the less the Muggles hear about one of their own talking about Mudbloods and dropping dead, the easier it is for people like me to hide in plain sight in a world that doesn't understand magic.

Was I trying to convince Logan of Rory's well-meaning intentions, or myself?

"You're loyal. I'll give you that one, Vicky."

I grabbed an apple from the fruit basket on the counter. "And you're an arse. Now that we established our positions in the team, what time would you like to head down to Ollie's shop?"

"First we should probably look up the address. I have no idea where Gigi's is to be honest." 

"I do. I ate there with my sister yesterday, and his shop is right across the street. It shouldn't be hard to find."

Logan raised a brow. "You were at a place where a man was killed the same day it happened? That must have been really weird for you. Are you alright?"

"Yes, I barely escaped a pompous brunch locale eight hours before someone got killed. I saw my life flash before my eyes, it's a miracle I'm still alive." I feigned shock by throwing my head back and placing the back of my hand to my forehead. I would have pretended to faint if I was more confident about Logan catching me.

"That's the last time I express any concern for your well-being, sassy."

"Good," I replied back with a smile. Feeling cheeky, I added, "We wouldn't want to make Emma jealous."

"Emma's got nothing to do with it. We broke up." He grabbed the apple that I had taken a single bite of out of my hand and chomped into it himself.

This morning was full of surprises.

A shock to neither me nor Logan, the front of Ollie-Oop – which was definitely an adorable pun – was swarmed with reporters. The flabbergasted expression on his face told me that the poor bloke never had this many customers near his business, let alone reporters. The sign was flipped to Closed despite it being barely being noon, and he was doing a rather poor job pretending to count the money in his cash register, acting as if he did not see the mob on the other side of the locked door, begging to come in with similar equipment that was shoved in his face last night.

"How the hell do we differentiate ourselves from the rest of the pack?" Logan whispered in my ear. "Pretend to want sports equipment?"

"That seems rather unethical. I want him to know what we're up to from the start."

He shrugged. "You're the boss."

"I am?"

"You keep rejecting all my niceties today. I'm trying to extend a hand of good will here."

I didn't dare think it had anything to do with his breakup with Emma. That he wanted something more than casual sex after a few drinks. More realistically, he probably just wanted to be on friendly terms because we were stuck on an assignment together when we both usually work alone. Rory made it clear that this was supposed to be a punishment, and Logan was stubbornly trying to prove to him that investigating a murder with me was the only way he would want to spend his Monday.

 _Focus on the job, you twit._ Losing control of my nerves, I gripped the spine of my notebook and started clicking my pen. And then I had an idea.

"What are you doing?"

I was scribbling my message so frantically that I momentarily forgot Logan was there. "I'm trying to write this big enough so Ollie can read it when I hold it up to the window." I finished writing in the neatest capital letters I could muster and handed my notebook to Logan for his approval.

"I've heard of Mudbloods. We believe you," Logan read. He looked up at me, brows furrowed. "I thought you said downright lying to him to get through the door was unethical?"

I had seconds to consider what to say next.

"I'm not lying."


End file.
